


In The Arms Of The Angel

by Watermelonsmellinfellon



Series: How They Could Have Met [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angel Wings, Angels, BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, Cute, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Fallen Angels, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Homosexuality, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, Love, M/M, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Trust, Wingfic, Wings, life - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:30:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4711061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watermelonsmellinfellon/pseuds/Watermelonsmellinfellon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fallen Angels. AU.</p><p>The human population possesses the ability to grow feathers from their spines, but less than even five million at a time ever actually grow any. A feather for a life. Every life saved, earned a feather. The feathers would overlap each other, until there was finally enough to create a wing and if some were lucky, two wings. </p><p>Humans, Homo Sapiens, Fallen Angels.</p><p>The British Army has a subdivision for their soldiers who have two wings.</p><p>John Watson is part of the A.N.G.E.L.S., with the code name, Guardian. An honor.</p><p>Sherlock Holmes is a 'sociopath'. He 'cares for nobody and nothing but himself', supposedly.</p><p>And yet John will prove that Sherlock is indeed an angel and not just fighting on their side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Friendship to romance.

**A/N: Hello, people!**

**I don’t own Sherlock.**

**I have no beta.**

**ENJOY!**

**CHECK ME OUT ON TUMBLR.[HELLY-WATERMELONSMELLINFELLON.](http://helly-watermelonsmellinfellon.tumblr.com/) I FOLLOW BACK.**

* * *

 

Feathers. The human race was a bit advanced in terms of their bodies.

A life was worth a feather. Why though? What was so bloody important about a feather?

Feathers gathered. More and more until they shaped a wing. And then another if one is lucky enough.

Humanity was referred to as ‘Fallen Angels’. All having the ability within themselves to grow wings of their own, one feather at a time, but most being unable to earn the feathers to create their own wings.

What must one do to earn their feathers?

Simple.

Actually, the process itself wasn’t simple at all. It was complex and very few managed it. Out of seven billion people on the planet, five million at any given time, may have feathers.

The people who had them, tended to be soldiers, doctors, policemen, firemen, and the rare few who perform acts of bravery, without being a part of the formerly listed groupings.

A life. A feather for every life saved.

If a person saves a life, they have earned a feather.

People with a lot of feathers earned respect. Such kind and upstanding people they were.

But the feathers could be hidden. Under the skin. And at any time, they could form from the spine, where they grew. And whenever one wished for them to disappear, they’d simply melt, retreating into the skin as a raindrop joins a puddle of water, the skin rippling like the puddle would at the new addition.

Some people never earned feathers.

Some of them were jealous of those who had feathers.

Some people flaunted their feathers for the world to see.

Some people didn't.

Sometimes, life wasn’t fair. Sometimes, life was too fair.

* * *

 

John Watson is an ex-soldier and he has a lot of feathers. So many in fact, that just in his three years in the army, he gained over five thousand feathers of his own.

What led him to being invalided home, was an attack. The medical tent had been targeted and John managed to get everyone out and to safety, before it was blown to pieces. Then there was the enemy, who had gotten a shot at him while he stood in front of a wounded man, willing to take the hits.

He was shot down.

John Watson left the army with six thousand, nine hundred and two feathers altogether.

His feathers were a golden brown shade, with small blue speckles.

Being only five and a half feet tall and weighing only 9 stone, he was able to lift himself of the ground and fly for a few minutes before becoming too tired. His wings were like another muscle, they tired quickly.

John was grateful that while his shoulder and hand suffered, as well as his mind, his wings had been fine.

They were nice. He valued them. Not for what they meant. Oh, he was a soldier and such a good person! No. It was because that they’d helped him save a life. They’d helped him when he needed help. Shielded him like the best metal armor ever created.

John had been a part of the British Army's subdivision, ‘A.N.G.E.L.S.’. The Aiming for Nirvana with Globalized Equality and Liberation Sector. It was a separate grouping for the soldiers who had earned enough feathers to get wings. John was one out of six with full fledged wings in his regiment.

While a tremendous honor, half of the time it didn’t make sense.

‘Fallen Angels’ who had enough feathers to form wings, were regarded as heroes all around the world. People looked up to them. Respected them. Obviously they must be good people.

But these others like John were part of a subdivision that promoted peace and tranquility all over the world, even though they were in the middle of a war and were killing people on the other side if they didn’t conceded to demands?

It didn’t make sense. John even asked about the need for it, but he was never given an answer, so he simply did as ordered and tried his very best.

As one of the A.N.G.E.L.S., John had saved one thousand lives, earning him the title Guardian.

John Watson. The short, blonde man with an incredible love for fuzzy jumpers and tea, had managed what many servicemen with much more years of experience, hadn’t. He was respected. Captain Watson, Guardian of the A.N.G.E.L.S..

John returned to London with medals of honor and a good reputation.

John’s dog tags rested around his neck. It was considered appropriate to wear them in memory of those saved, those fallen, and to remind him of what he fought for.

Also, the dog tags for A.N.G.E.L.S. were a little different. An extra tag, that was shaped as a wing, with his initials on it, listed his code name Guardian. Servicemen didn’t earn much on a pension. The A.N.G.E.L.S. tag was to aid them in society. Respect and honor from the populace.

The A.N.G.E.L.S. tag allowed him certain privileges. Half off a purchase at any shop. Free coffee at the local coffee shop. Free cabs. Flash the tag and everything righted itself.

John hadn’t been so comfortable using it. Only when he really needed to. He could pay for a coffee. But sometimes, he didn’t have enough for food. The bedsit wasn’t cheap even though it barely had anything worth living for.

He needed a flatshare badly.

* * *

 

When John Watson met Mike Stamford again, he’d been relieved to see someone in London that he knew. He also felt guilty for not keeping in touch with his old friend.

Mike was a happy-go-lucky guy and was always lighthearted. He greeted John warmly and inquired after his sister, Harry. He even knew someone who needed a flatmate. It was like destiny.

John however, moved his dog tags under his collar, not wanting them to be seen immediately. Being on of the A.N.G.E.L.S. had its perks sometimes, but he didn’t want to people to hound him if they knew. He’d see how this bloke reacted to him as a person, before flashing his tags.

He followed Mike, limping the whole way. It was annoying, how his mind seemed to believe that he was injured and therefore hindered his progress by making him limp. Just because he was adjusting to being a civilian with no more uses than a tea kettle, didn’t mean that he was injured!

Barts was like a blast from the past. He remembered training at Barts. Remember all the classes, the practicals, the theoreticals. Time sure flew when in the army. Barts seemed like a lifetime ago.

“He’s usually in the lab by now,” Mike commented, leading him down the stairs. “He comes in and basically uses the equipment. A Master Chemist, brilliant.”

Smart people tended to be mature, right? So maybe this bloke wouldn’t overreact to John’s tags.

Into Lab 4, John’s memory shifted, being replaced with all of these new things. Repainted, better electrical, modern technology. It was so much nicer.

“Bit different from my day,” he mumbled.

Mike snorted, obviously getting the joke. “You have no idea.”

The only other person in the room was very tall. At least, he looked tall. Definitely taller than John. His hair was a mess of dark curls that framed his face and touched the bottom of his ears. He was thin, which made him appear taller. He wore an expensive suit with a white dress shirt, unbuttoned slightly, no tie.

So he had to have some money if he dressed like that. Why did he need a flatmate?

“Mike, can I borrow your phone, theres no signal on mine.”

Deep voice. It kind of matched the character he portrayed. And his dialect was very posh. Wealthy, posh, smart. A mature man.

“What’s wrong with the landline?”

“I prefer to text.”

“Sorry, it’s in my coat.”

John saw the minute pursing of the man’s lips.

He rummaged through his pockets, pulling out the phone Harry had given him. “Here,” he offered, holding the phone aloft. “Use mine.”

“Oh… thank you.”

Mike’s eyes widened a little at that. John could ascertain that this bloke apparently wasn’t one to show gratitude then. Okay. He could deal with that.

He had long, pale fingers, John noticed. Everything on him seemed long and thin. Up close, he could see the man’s cheekbones, practically blaring in John’s face. They could probably cut diamonds.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” came the man’s voice.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Mike was grinning.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man reiterated, looking at John from over his shoulder.

“Afghanistan… how did you-”

“Here you go!”

John flinched minutely at the opening of the lab’s door and the loud, cheerful voice of the woman who came up behind him.

“Ah, Molly, thank you. What happened to the lipstick?”

“I-It wasn’t wasn’t working for me,” Molly stuttered.

“Really? I thought I was a big improvement, your mouth’s too, small now.”

The was walking back to his work station, sipping from the coffee mug Molly had brought him.

“Okay,” she answered breathlessly, before turning and leaving the room.

“How do you feel about the violin?”

John was bought back with the whole shocking non sequitur.

“What?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end, would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

The man flashed him a grin.

“Are you-” John looked to Mike, “you told him about me?”

How had he done it already? Mike and John had been together for the last hour!

“Not a word,” Mike smirked.

‘Not a word.’.

“Then who said anything about flatmates?”

“I did! Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just out to lunch with an old friend. Clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap.”

Mike said ‘brilliant’. He never said how brilliant. This man was a genius!

“How did you know about Afghanistan?”

“Ive got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together, we ought to be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, at seven o’clock.”

The man grabbed a scarf, wrapped it around his neck and pulled on an Belstaff Milford trenchcoat. Definitely came from money.

“Sorry, I’ve got to dash. I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

He was almost out the door, when John finally spoke up. Because there were so many unexplained things. He didn’t even know this bloke’s name, for God’s sake!

“Is that it?”

“Is that what?”

“We only just met and we’re going to go look at a flat?”

“Problem?” the man asked, looking confused.

“We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting. I don’t even know your name.”

A few minutes later, Sherlock Holmes sauntered from the lab with a wink and a smile. John stood there, mind ringing with the words Sherlock had said.

He knew John had a psychosomatic limp. He knew John trained at Barts and was in the army. He knew John had a sibling, though how he knew, John hadn’t the foggiest. Getting the gender wrong wasn’t important, he’d even got the fact that Harry was an alcoholic and that she’d broken up with her wife!

He was amazing.

* * *

 

If John thought his life had been interesting in the army, then his life with Sherlock Holmes was jampacked with danger and excitement at every turn.

That night, which had happened only a few months ago, was one of the best in his life. He was useful again. Sherlock gave him use. Sherlock cured his mind.

Living with Sherlock, the world’s only consulting detective was like a fantasy. It was always a crime scene, always a death, and John’s blog - which his therapist, Ella had him start when he came back from the war - was blooming.

It was nice to actually have things to write about.

Though Sherlock complained and teased him needlessly over the names of the cases, he didn’t mind. Because there was something to be done.

And John never forgot the look on Sherlock’s face when he learned of John’s military status.

It had been that second night. Sherlock ended up goading him into coming to a crime scene with him where John met Sergeant Sally Donovan, Philip Anderson of the Forensics team, and Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Sherlock had a lot of animosity with Sally and Philip, but he seemed to tolerate Lestrade to a fine point.

John had a feeling that Sherlock liked Lestrade because he was the only cop willing to work with Sherlock and actually frequently consulted him.

John’s opinion on the beautiful Sally Donovan plummeted the moment she opened her mouth and addressed Sherlock as a ‘freak’. He didn’t not appreciate that, even if he thought Sherlock to be a bit too excited over a crime scene, that didn’t mean she had to be so rude.

And then she tried to refuse entrance even when hearing her superior invited Sherlock.

Sherlock even introduced John and his colleague and a doctor.

Sally merely scoffed.

John, in a fit of temper, pulled his dog tags out and flashed the wing of the A.N.G.E.L.S..

Donovan stuttered when she laid eyes on it, but nodded silently and made a wide gesture for them to continue on. And that was when John met Philip Anderson, who was in every sense of the word, a dick. And a dork.

Sherlock quickly put him in his place, with a little snip at Donovan for being in an affair with Anderson who was married.

And a moment later, John met Greg Lestrade. The man had begun to protest, until he saw John’s tag.

“You’re really a doctor too?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then. I guess for Sherlock’s sake, I can swing it.”

And that was it. John assisted on the case of A Study In Pink.

Sherlock proved to be brilliant, amazing, and extraordinary throughout the evening. John lost his limp. John shot a man to save Sherlock from being an idiot. Sherlock’s brother Mycroft kidnapped John. John refused to accept the money offered in order to spy on Sherlock. Not in that order, but still a hectic night.

And then John had moved in.

The Blind Banker had been a more indepth case for them. John got to learn about Sherlock’s past a bit. Learn how Sherlock liked to mess with people. He got to see that brilliant mind at work.

And Sherlock even saved he and his date, Sarah - who was from the clinic down the road where John sometimes worked - from a Chinese smuggling group. It was all very, not Sherlock like. Especially calming Sarah down.

On their second night of acquaintanceship, Sherlock stated when his flat had been invaded by policemen, that he was not a psychopath, but a high functioning sociopath. Sociopathic people tended to suffer severe moral ambiguity. Sherlock was not aware of social cues and morals because he hadn’t felt them important to remember. The Work was what mattered and falling into the parameters of societal expectation did not help him achieve his goals.

But there were moments. Sherlock probably didn’t notice, since he was very adamant about his status as a sociopath. Mrs. Hudson was their landlady and apparently, Sherlock had ensured that her husband was executed in Florida. He’d gotten the story from her. The man had been an adulterer, the head of a drug cartel, and had shot two people, killing them. Sherlock seemed to have a soft spot for her, even when he manipulated her into doing his laundry that he didn’t want to do and commented about wanting good biscuits, making her excited to make more.

Sherlock was rude often. But his level of rudeness was less with Mrs. Hudson. He didn’t speak with her the way he did with his brother, or with Lestrade. He used less insults if any at all, and sometimes resorted to pouting with her.

It was a very mother-son relationship between them.

Sherlock was also different with John. And it wasn't because John could get food at half price and free cabs.

John and Mrs. Hudson worked ‘round the clock to make certain that Sherlock ate. They made him tea. Both even cooked. John went so far as to help Sherlock stop smoking and resorting to nicotine patches only when the cases were at a level ten.

John helped with cases. John’s blog was growing and gaining more followers. John rarely if ever, judged Sherlock’s actions.

Some things hit him a certain way and he would have to say something, but rarely did they argue over it.

Except the first time he caught Sherlock using his laptop without permission when he could have gone into his room which was a lot closer than John’s, to get his own bloody laptop.

John had failed to protect someone because he was more worried about Sherlock’s health. John didn’t allow people to insult Sherlock. John tended to put Mycroft in his place, prompting positive feelings from Sherlock.

Yes, Sherlock and John’s relationship had come far.

John considered Sherlock a friend.

A childish, loud, dramatic, brilliant, gorgeous, and morbidly humorous, friend.

* * *

 

The dynamic between them changed after meeting Moriarty face to face.

John had been kidnapped and strapped to bloody bomb. And Moriarty played on Sherlock’s feelings in the beginning, making Sherlock think John had been behind it the whole time. If only for a few seconds.

John hated the look of horror on his friend’s face when John walked out from the locker room, speaking the words Moriarty ordered in his ear.

“John? What the hell?”

Disbelief. Complete refusal to believe that John was betraying him. It broke his heart.

But then the game ended. Moriarty came out from hiding and it was all the start of a new game. Risk. And John was willing to allow himself to get blown up for Sherlock’s safety.

He wrapped his arms around a madman and told Sherlock to run.

In the end, when their lives were safe once more and, Sherlock hadn't know how to react to it.

“That was… good.”

He couldn’t even say thank you correctly because no one had ever done something like that for him. Gratefulness, uncertainty, embarrassment. It was awkward.

Sherlock claimed to be an antisocial person who didn’t care for sentiment and transport. He only cared for The Work. But so many things in his life stated the opposite.

During The Great Game, with Moriarty, he’d discovered the answers to the puzzles given to him. Sherlock enjoyed himself, despite the fact that people were in danger the entire time. That right there would assure people that Sherlock was an emotionless being with no proclivity toward caring for human life.

But Sherlock had panicked over the painting. Sherlock panicked over John being strapped to a semtex vest. Sherlock wasn’t as emotionless as he wanted people to believe.

And then The Woman happened.

John did not like Irene Adler.

He was certain that she and Sherlock had something going on. It was there. Two brilliant people coming into close quarters all the time. Sherlock actually being duped by someone.

Sherlock liked Irene to an extent at least. Whether he had loved her or not, John couldn’t say. He didn’t know about Sherlock’s preferences in relationships. He didn’t know what made Sherlock’s romantic tendencies - if he had any, he could be aromantic for all John knew - react.

Irene had something and Sherlock liked it. John wouldn’t ever understand what had happened between them.

And minute jealousy may have reared its head.

Irene elicited responses from Sherlock that John hadn’t seen before. John, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg had been the only people before to see Sherlock act even close to how he had acted with Irene.

John was also a bit put off after the whole faking her death thing. Sherlock has slipped into a depression and John couldn’t do anything to help him feel better.

He didn’t like it. He didn’t like her games. He didn’t like her association with Moriarty. He just really didn’t like Irene Adler.

Then came The Hounds of Baskerville, where Sherlock finally admitted how he felt about John in terms of friendship. They’d been friends for a while already, but it was nice to hear the man say it aloud.

And the way he said it too.

“I don’t have friends, I’ve just got one.”

John had stood there for a few seconds, trying to sort it all out. Mrs. Hudson was like a mother figure in Sherlock’s life. Greg was a more tolerable version of Mycroft, so a brother that Sherlock actually liked and tolerated. Mycroft was… well… it was a love/hate relationship between them.

So Sherlock meant him.

John Watson.

Former soldier. All morals and sentiment, which were things Sherlock claimed to despise or find as a weakness.

John sighed and turned away then, because he might just get a bit emotional and that was most certainly not the time for it. Not when people were going insane and a military base was conducting odd experiments that made even Sherlock’s experiments look tame.

As he walked away, trying to right himself, Sherlock must have assumed that John was still angered, because he rushed after his only friend, proclaiming that John was ‘amazing’, ‘extraordinary’, and ‘fantastic’. Basically a repetition of the words John had used to describe Sherlock the second night of their acquaintanceship. Sherlock, who deliberately deleted things from his Mind Palace when he thought them to be trivial, felt those words were worthy enough to remember.

Sherlock then called him, ‘a conductor of light’, getting a little sappy, but still no less sweet. John had never been more flattered.

And at the end of it all, he overlooked Sherlock putting what he knew to be drugged sugar, in his coffee. Sherlock had done experiments on John before, John could overlook that one because it wasn’t the worst Sherlock had done to him. Literally.

That one time with the head in the fridge, or the coffee cup with the eyeball in it. Or that time with the pollen. Never again. He’d never get over that one. But the sugar, John could let that go.

Besides, it wasn’t as if anything would kill him.

Although that mental break down was certainly something. And the drugs… those were bad.

But he could let it go.

And then… Moriarty happened.

At the beginning of this whole problem, John had been severely out of it. He didn’t what was happening, or how to help Sherlock.

John did know this.

As a Guardian from the A.N.G.E.L.S., John knew things. Practices shown and taught only to those with wings.

John by now, had over eight thousand feathers and the special effect of them, was that they were like the best reinforced steel and that bullets did not affect them. They were also poisonous.

Some feathers were stronger than usual, to make people fly better. Some feathers could detach and become weapons, before literally reattaching themselves. Some feathers could cause great winds it flexed hard enough. Some feathers could use echolocation to help see further. John’s were like armor, protecting him from harm once he learned how to use them. And then they were like a paralyzing darts, if removed.

In this situation, Sherlock’s reputation was being ruined by Moriarty and he wouldn’t let anyone help him do whatever he was planning to do. John wasn’t stupid, he knew something greater was at work and he knew that Sherlock was being too bloody stubborn to do anything about it.

So John went to Mycroft.

“Your brother is being a dick. What is he up to now?”

The man tried the government card, but John had never been scared of Mycroft. There wasn't anything to be scared of.

“Tell me Mycroft, or I’m going to be shooting more people, so help me God.”

“We are planning,” said the man, taking a sip of tea.

“Yeah, I can see that. Sherlock is letting people believe that he’s a fraud? And he has nothing witty to say in return to the press? Realy? I don’t think so. My best friend it out there planning to do something drastic all on his own and I’ll be damned if I don’t help him!”

“John, please try-”

“No, Mycroft! Now!”

The man blinked twice, before sitting back in his chair.

“It’s for your sake, John,” he said softly. Never had John heard Mycroft sound so… tired.

“Yours and Mrs. Hudson’s and Gregory’s. Moriarty has plans for you three. Plans that Sherlock refuses to see come to fruition. We’ve planned out the entire charade and Sherlock has realized that he will have to die.”

“HE’LL WHAT-”

“JOHN!”

The ex-soldier froze, quieting instantly.

“Thank you. Moriarty won’t be pleased unless Sherlock is defeated. Unless he believes that Sherlock is down without a way out. He’s using Sherlock’s closest companions against him. Sherlock and I have mapped out 13 different plans, 10 of them, he comes out alive personally, but everyone else will believe he is dead until the right moment.”

“And was I going to be one of these people?”

“Naturally.”

“God, you idiots don’t do anything by halves do you?”

“I will have you know-”

“Yes, and I’ll have you know, that I am not sitting back and letting this unfold. Tell me where the snipers are and I’ll get rid of them.”

Mycroft cocked a brow. “You would simply kill people, all for Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes. For my best friend, and possible love interest, I haven’t had time to delve that deep yet.”

Mycroft’s skepticism seemed to melt away then. He even sat forward, looking more interested.

“John Watson you have changed my brother. He never cared for anyone before you came along. He never would allow this sort of thing to happen. But he values you, and Mrs. Hudson, and Gregory very much and is willing to let his reputation be trashed as well as going into hiding to personally deal with Moriarty’s web.

Tell me, what can you do, to make it so that Sherlock doesn't have to suffer uncover for the next three years?”

John’s nose wrinkled a bit and he squared his shoulders. He began to carefully unbutton his coat and slip off his jumper. His shirt went next and he turned around, allowing his muscles to relax and his wings to surface, something he hadn’t done in a while.

They spread wide, nearly covering the length of the room, running width wise. Twenty-two feet long each, with golden brown, metallic feathers, grouped together to form two large wings.

“These are most likely the hardest substance you will ever see. In the army, I stabbed an enemy with one of these and they were paralyzed instantly. Something is in or on them that does this. They shield perfectly against bullets and can even deflect them with some movement. Make me some bullets out of these and tell me who I’m after. You can interrogate them afterward. You’re the government, make it some sort of mission.”

Mycroft had stood.

Revealing one’s wings was like a honor, according to some people. To see them fully exposed was a rarity.

John wasn’t expecting to feel Mycroft touching his wings, but he let it slide.

“I must admit to being impressed, John. Are you certain? This will no doubt hurt.”

“Yes it will. But the pain of losing my friend would hurt more. Just do it.”

With swift movements, Mycroft plucked four feathers from John’s spine, the doctor hissed in pain. Burning, searing pain all from losing a few feathers. Damn that hurt!

“Well done, John.”

That small praise from Mycroft ended the moment between then and John turned around to begin planning.

* * *

 

John had gone back to Baker Street, where he found the man aiming to kill him, residing in the closed flat of 221C. The job was done quickly and efficiently. The man was left there, unable to move, all contacts and weapons gone. He’d be like that for a while. The man assigned to Mrs. Hudson was easier to find. He was hiding in the blown up building across the street. There was no mercy. The doctor entered the building and shot the man, paralyzing him. He then texted Mycroft the code word ‘scheiße’ as a sign that he could move in and gather the fallen snipers.

New Scotland Yard was more tricky.

John had been told the man on Lestrade was one of his own workers, on his floor. Direct visual to him at any time. This meant that John had to be discreet. He couldn’t tip off Moriarty before everything came to blows.

The man was like Sherlock’s evil equal. The moment he even thought for a second that things weren't going the way he wanted, he’d probably go to plan B and then Plan C and so on and so forth.

He walked into Scotland Yard, pretending to be frantic as he asked around for Greg.

As usual the man was in his office, except he was reclined in his chair, eating crisps.

He made sure people heard when he said, “Sherlock’s missing!”

Greg was understandably worried and he closed the door to his office.

“Have you seen him recently?”

“Two days missing,” John said, pulling out a note and handing it over.

Greg took it, giving him a look while saying, “Have you seen Mycroft yet?”

“No. But Sherlock can get away from Mycroft easily so I don’t think that he’d be of much help with this.”

Greg read the note while John talked. He looked up suddenly, eyes wide.

“So have you checked all his usual places?”

“Yes, even with his homeless network,” John lied, playing along.

“Well, you’ll have to file a missing person report, Sally could help you there. I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

“Okay.”

John left the office, going over to Donovan, who looked less than thrilled to see him.

“So, the Freak’s missing again? Probably off to kill someone.”

John glared at her. “I just need to file a missing person report, simple. You help me, we get this done and over with and I can leave.”

“Why should I help you?”

“Yes, why should you do your job?” John sneered, the pure loathing in his voice making her flinch a bit.

“But then again, you never seem to do your job. Sherlock does your job perfectly well and he doesn't even get paid for it. You get paid for doing nothing, so how about you actually earn part of your next cheque?”

God, John really didn’t like her! Hated her more than Irene.

They glared at each other, even as she moved to get the papers required for the report.

A loud ringing noise filled the room and the sprinklers exploded with water, soaking everything.

People began to move frantically, gathering up their paperwork and bags and rushing for the exit. Fire Alarm.

John’s eyes found the man who was focusing on Greg than on his own safety. He was quick and efficient, slipping through the room with ease, following slowly behind the fleeing people, eyes locked solely on Greg.

John was grateful that Mycroft gave him a silencer for the this new gun, because he pulled it out and shot the man down in near silence, with only Greg, Anderson, and Donovan left in the room with them. The bullet tore into the man’s leg and he fell to the floor with a loud ‘thump’.

Donovan and Anderson gasped and Greg nodded. “That worked,” he commented.

“Call Mycroft, he’ll come fetch him. I have to get to Bart’s. Moriarty is with Sherlock right now.”

John left quickly, slipping the gun into his pocket.

* * *

 

Sherlock turned slowly as Moriarty pushed into his personal space.

“No, you’re all talk. You’re ordinary. You’re ordinary, you’re on the side of the angels.”

“Oh, I may be on the side of the angels…” Sherlock rumbled. “But don’t think for one second, that I am one of them.”

Jim Moriarty went rigid suddenly, falling backward. Sherlock looked up in shock, seeing John standing there. He hadn’t heard anything. He and Moriarty had practically breathing each other’s air, unable to see anything else.

“You both underestimated my intelligence,” John said, lowering his gun. “Like I wasn’t going to notice anything going on?”

His steps were sure and he was glaring at Moriarty. “Foolish. Messy. How unlike you to make such a large a mistake, Jim.”

Jim Moriarty wasn’t moving. His arms were literally frozen in front of him. Paralysis.

“Sherlock, you, everyone in this bloody world seems to think that Sherlock Holmes is an inhuman piece of rubbish. That he cares for nobody and nothing but himself and his entertainment.”

John turned his glare to Sherlock. “You idiot,” he hissed. “Ready to do this all on your own. Ready to give up your life for me. Not once thinking that maybe I can help. Well, here I am, helping. I’ve taken care of the snipers, I’ve fixed your problem, Sherlock.”

“John…”

A whisper. Carried between them on the wind that blew over the rooftop of the hospital.

“I’m not worth that much, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson and Greg, sure. But not me. The whole, giving your life for me thing, doesn’t romance me, Sherlock, Because you are my life and with you gone… what am I to do?”

“John.”

Even to Sherlock it sounded heartbroken.

“You said you weren’t a hero and that I shouldn’t make you into one. Don’t you see what all of this was, Sherlock? Heroism at it’s finest. I have seen you ignore the people you don’t care about. I have seen you make allowances for the people you do care about. Mrs. Hudson, Greg, me, and even Irene.

You aren’t some sociopath, you are emotionally repressed. You aren’t a freak, you are extraordinary. You aren’t a villain, you are a hero. You aren’t some random angel, you are a Fallen Angel and I’m damn bloody sure that you have more feathers than anyone on this planet!”

“John!”

“Show me your wings, Sherlock!”

“John!”

“SHOW ME!

Sherlock’s heart was pounding. Beating frantically, trying to escape from his body. To simply break through his sternum and rush into John’s arms.

Because he hadn’t acknowledged these feelings all too much. He’d been simply convinced that they were really good friends, until Baskerville. Until he’d been forced to admit how he felt, at least to some degree.

John’s actions, his words. Not something a friend would say… Sherlock was certain of it. John was bearing his feelings and was asking Sherlock to do the same.

Something Sherlock had never done before.

But John was imploring, so he raised a shaking hand, discarding his coat. With a little push, he forced his own feathers into being, hearing the tearing of his suit as the wings burst forth from his spine and spread outward, blocking the sunlight from their mass.

John’s mouth dropped slightly.

“How many?” John whispered.

Sherlock understood  immediately and looked away, trying to get up the gumption to give the number. To admit that he wasn’t a sociopath and that he really did care about what people thought about him. That he was an emotional being who was affected by sentiment. The chemical defect found on the losing side.

And Sherlock was a loser alright, because he had fallen into sentiment thanks to John Watson and allowed himself to care. And he didn’t want to stop. Caring… wasn’t an advantage, according to Mycroft. But maybe, just maybe, he could be wrong for once.

“Nineteen thousand, seven hundred and twelve.”

Sherlock’s wings were large, measuring at thirty-four feet, one inch each. A wingspan of sixty-eight feet, two inches. They weren’t just black. No, they were the darkest shade of black imaginable, with a light ebony sheen in the sunlight.

John was smiling though and Sherlock was witness to the appearance of John’s own wings, so very John-like in appearance. Golden like John’s hair, with a brown tint to them. There were small, almost indiscernible blue spots covering them. They weren’t as large as Sherlock were but they were impressive. They looked soft, but Sherlock could see how stiff they were. John’s feathers were probably hard as steel or harder. The similitude between John and his wings was ironic.

“Do you see, Sherlock? Can you see what I mean?”

“Yes.”

John’s free hand rose, extended toward Sherlock.

The world’s only consulting detective looked wary for a moment, before stepping around Moriarty’s fallen form and placing his gloved hand into John’s.

“It’s worth it in the end, Sherlock. Believe me.”

Sherlock looked down at their linked hand, a small smile beginning to spread on his face.

He was warm with John’s assurance. He liked this feeling.

“What is this… John? This feeling that seems to be… everywhere at once?”

John smiled, conducting his light into Sherlock, scaring away his concerns. “It’s love, Sherlock. It’s called love.”

In a completely surprising movement, Sherlock leaned down and pulled John closer, lightly pressing their lips together for a few seconds, before withdrawing.

John blinked three times. He shook himself off, before huffing, “I wasn’t ready. Again.”

Sherlock repeated the action, happy to know that John welcomed more.

With all of his might, John seemed to throw himself into Sherlock’s arms, bringing them, closer and making this warm feeling of love, burn all the brighter.

“You know, I can get used to this,” John said as they pulled back a little.

“I think I can as well,” admitted Sherlock, feeling the truth of his words down to his core.

“Yes, because I have realized that I do love you Sherlock. Never... for even a moment, think that I don’t.”

Sherlock nodded, “And you, John Watson. I don’t want you to ever think, that you aren’t important to me or The Work.”

Sherlock took a deep, fortifying breath.

“I love you as well.”

* * *

 

**A/N: DONE!**

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	2. I Spread My Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part of an overview of Sherlock's life.
> 
> Companion piece to chapter one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and some of his past and feelings.

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* * *

 

Sherlock had always been hounded by societal expectation. He hated people on principle. They were raucous, annoying, intrusive, overbearing, and overall lacked the ability to discern when they were unwanted.

Why did Sherlock have to be nice?

False platitudes did not interest him. When he was a child, he never understood the need to play everything to people’s expectations. He didn’t care what they thought!

That was a bit of a lie, he did care. A lot in fact. But just because his feelings took a hit every time someone opened their mouth against him, did not mean he would stop. He had a way of doing things and he wasn’t about to abandon the familiar process all for someone else’s comfort. Or his own comfort for that matter.

Wings and feathers.

Everywhere Sherlock looked, people talked about them.

Such nice and honorable people!

Ha!

He could enumerate all the nice things those honorable people have done. But he knew that other people would simply allow it to slide, because having wings must obviously make you a good person.

People with enough feathers to make wings were the talk of the world. Every country had them. Sherlock had been to some countries that revered theirs on such a high level, they actually regarded them as gods. Others, as servants of gods. Others as the Messiah reborn.

Sherlock’s trip to Japan during his years at University, required him to reveal his wings for only a short period of time. He’d earned a nickname from the person who had hired him to locate a stolen artifact. A friend of Mycroft’s who was willing to pay in special pollen that was difficult to acquire.

Sherlock had only had about four thousand feathers at the time, but his were unnaturally long and thin, making it appear as if he had more. But the feathers formed two wings very neatly from his spine. Sherlock, having always been thin, was able to fly to an extent. He preferred walking, so flying wasn’t usually his way to go. Also, he was fine with allowing people to believe that he didn’t have any feathers. I made his image as a uncaring, high functioning sociopath, stronger. It was best not to show his wings.

But in Japan, they had legends and myths. Sherlock had deduced where the stolen artifact was located and he proceeded to go to the home of the one who liberated it from Kurosawa’s possession.

He’d been paid to locate and return with it. No killing - not like he was interested in that - and no one could know about the replacing of the vase. He was given a replica to replace it with and everything.

Sherlock was not a fool. He knew enough about Japan to know the fear of some mythical creatures.

He dressed in an all black kimono, and purchased a small, beaked mask. He had black geta on his feet, a small black hat on his head, a small fan made of crow feathers in his left hand, and was holding a bō in his right hand. In his satchel was the fake vase.

The Tengu was an ancient creature said to despise braggarts and those who used another’s work in order to push themselves to the top. They hated arrogance as well. The Karasu Tengu, with black, crow like wings and a large beak on a humanoid body, the creature was easily recognized in various depictions of it. Sherlock figured that playing to the superstitions of the thief would aid him if he was seen.

So Sherlock, in the dead of night, with wings as black as pitch and a ‘beak’ on his face, approached the home of the thief, from an aerial standpoint. He landed on the roof and took to observing the best entrance, which happened to be the shōji by the garden.

From there, Sherlock was quick to work, incapacitating two guards quickly, replacing the stolen vase with the fake and departing post haste.

The guards would only have memory of a large beaked, black winged figure beating them to a bloody mess with a bō. Let their imaginations wander.

For his efforts, Kurosawa called him Tengu. Even insisted that he had been sent by Buddah.

Sherlock had been more interested in his prize pollen at the time, to care.

Still, some religions turned winged people into gods. Certain countries gave winged people anything they wanted. The cream of the crop.

Sherlock’s job and life would have been easier if he had revealed his wings to the world. But he didn’t care about the benefits. He also didn’t want people to know that he had saved anyone’s life.

Donovan and Anderson took to showing of their feathers at any moment. Even had clothing fitted to allowed them to be freed. A couple hundred each and both were so proud of it too.

Lestrade wasn’t among the kind who liked to show their wings and feathers and brag about them, though he had about two thousand at least. His feathers were larger than normal, forming wings a lot faster then normal people did. His feathers weighed nothing despite obviously being there. They allowed wind to whip through them and made Lestrade run faster than a normal person whenever they flapped behind him as he ran.

Mycroft.

As the British Government who had a much higher position than he let on, Mycroft was in charge of many lives. Mycroft chose not to show his wings simply because he didn’t need the perks that came from having them. The perks were already graciously bestowed on him.

Mycroft had more feathers than even Sherlock, simply because his decisions and his dealings ensured the safety of millions of people.

Mycroft had even done leg-work against his own wishes, for the safety of England. Mycroft’s feathers were colorful and his ability granted by them, was extrasensory perception. This, coupled with his eidetic memory, was enough to make him just a little bit smarter than Sherlock, but not by much!

Sherlock was all natural.

As for Sherlock’s feathers and wings.

Over his life he’d gained feathers from cases where he’s stopped murderers, cases against bombings, over helping the homeless of London - yes, he helped all of them, preventing deaths all around - and overall stopping several idiots from being more idiotic than normal.

Sherlock’s feather count doubled the moment he met John Watson. He wasn’t shocked. He liked John and wanted John to like him back. He even took ridiculous cases that he normally wouldn’t.

It seemed that around John, he felt the need to do things he didn’t care about with other people. But he wanted John to be happy and proud of him.

It was pathetic.

John was just so incredibly moral and sociable. It was so difficult to pretend that he didn’t care at some points. And the disappointment was just… stifling and guilt bringing.

Sherlock did not like guilt.

Sherlock did not like fear.

Sherlock felt both when around John.

What is something happened to John? What if someone tried to take him away? What if John got hurt? What if John was kidnapped again? What if- and on and on it went. Too many fearful what ifs.

When every worry he’d ever had about John had come into play right before his eyes, with Moriarty behind it all, Sherlock had asked Mycroft of all people, and Molly, for help. He’d planned. He was prepared to never see John again, whether because he was dead, or in hiding and working with MI6.

But then John came. John shot Moriarty with some sort of tranquilizer and he came and stopped everything!

In the end, he requested that Sherlock bare himself in a way he never had before.

And Sherlock did so, for John.

And with amazement and joy, John took him into his arms and Sherlock kissed him... more than once.

Then both confessed, Sherlock through a bit of stuttering but managing to get his feelings out. His sentiment for John Watson.

Sherlock's feathers tingled. Each individual feather, vibrating intensely at the revelation and the sense of rightness in it. Vibrating with the truth. Because when truth was spoken, Sherlock's ability was linked with his wings. Vibration meant truth.

Finally.

He felt lighter. Calmer.

And not just because he would have to fake his death.

But because it was always John who made him better. Who kept him right.

And with John’s help, Sherlock could finally breakaway.

* * *

 

**A/N: DONE!**

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was it?


	3. Angel In Disguise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's feelings over Sherlock being a sociopath.

**A/N: Hello, people!**

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* * *

 

The first time John’s view of Sherlock’s so called sociopathy was called into question, it was over Sherlock calling him his friend.

John knew at the time that Sherlock didn’t fully understand, so he clarified their relationship to the berk that was hiring them.

* * *

 

The second time John thought Sherlock was an angel in disguise, was during the end of the case of The Blind Banker.

Soo Lin Yao had only managed to translate one word for them, before she had been killed.

And they were working on translating the rest, when Sherlock had to leave suddenly and John and Sarah were kidnapped.

Sherlock’s saving them wasn’t the shocker. It was Sherlock taking the time to comfort Sarah, that made his sociopathic wall drop in John’s eyes.

Why should Sherlock care if she was distraught? He didn’t even like her.

Sarah was in the way or something like that. And as a person, Sherlock automatically didn’t like her. Dealing with people was one of his pet peeves.

* * *

 

Sherlock proved not to be as petty as he came across as by still following through with his brother’s request for him to find the Bruce-Partington Plans.

Sherlock denied Mycroft all the time, so why not deny this one?

He wasn’t getting anything out of it.

But in the end, he revealed that he’d been paying attention to it all along.

* * *

 

Sherlock’s frantic worry over John’s health when Moriarty disappeared had been another lead.

Sherlock’s pulse had risen, his voice had gone hoarse a few times, he spoke quickly, his words meshing together, and he was twitchy.

After the whole stripping John’s clothes off thing of course.

* * *

 

When Irene Adler came into the picture, John was a bit… jealous.

Sherlock was playful with her. He smirked, joked, and quipped with The Woman. While John was happy that he was expressing himself to a certain degree, he’d did like how it came about.

* * *

 

At the Christmas party, Sherlock completely humiliated poor Molly and for once, she finally said something to him.

All the time with John and Mrs. Hudson had taught him a few things and he was able to discern that he was in the wrong.

And he apologized! He even kissed her on the cheek!

John was not jealous of Molly, strange enough.

* * *

 

And then Sherlock displayed depression when he believed Irene to have been killed. John had never seen him so morose before. And nothing he did helped!

* * *

 

Learning that Irene was alive must have been a slap in the face for Sherlock. And then when Mrs. Hudson was attacked by the Americans, well, Sherlock demonstrated how feelings for her by beating the bloody hell out of the man and throwing him out the window a total of twenty-six times and tossed him down the stairwell twice. Of course they all worked together with Greg to make sure that the number was never recorded.

Still, Sherlock showed his caring for his landlady.

* * *

 

In Baskerville, Sherlock sought John out when he thought he saw the Hound. He confided to feeling fear, which wasn’t something he was used to feeling.

He also talked Henry out of suicide. The fact that Sherlock cared at all about whether Henry wanted to take his own life, was a testament to his true nature.

And then there was his excitement over Lestrade being there. Whether it was because Mycroft ordered him to be or not, Sherlock liked Greg and preferred him to Mycroft. Also, someone else to help gather clues to make everything go by faster.

* * *

 

Honestly, there were so many instances where Sherlock didn’t match up to being a sociopath. John watched closely, mentally tallying every time Sherlock wasn’t a sociopath and he was very proud of the number he was at.

Sherlock was a very warm-hearted individual, he just didn’t seem to know it.

* * *

 

**A/N: Done!**

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**Author's Note:**

> How was it?


End file.
